Flames
by CheckAgain
Summary: When Nick's house burns down, he has nowhere to go. Fortunately, he has a generous neighbour next door. Eventual Nick/Gatsby.
1. Chapter 1

I've had this idea for a while now, and I've finally gotten around to writing it down. Yes, this will (eventually) be another Nick/Gatsby fic. I hope you enjoy! Please review!

* * *

In the mighty stomach of the fiery beast, Nick Carraway was churned in a gastric acid of smoke and carbon dioxide.

Flames licked at his clothes and smeared his skin with long, black streaks. All around him was orange and red and invisible teeth gnawing away at his belongings, but in his delirious state, he swore he could see the teeth, could see the fiery beast consuming his home and, consequently, himself. He stared at the blurring floor so warm against his cheek, and the realization struck him: he was watching himself be eaten alive.

It was really his own fault, though, he thought. One was supposed to crawl during fires, weren't they? To avoid succumbing to the smoke, the deadly, innocent blinder. But in his state of deep sleep, barely roused by the smell of smoke and the crackle of fire, he had awoken disoriented, vision going black once more as the grey gas blinded his sight and dragged him to the floor.

He knew he should have been more concerned, more panicked, but all he could think of was how stupid it was—to die in a simple house fire when he had survived hundreds of men shooting at him on a battlefield for a year. This was not a hero's death, was it? It was a human's.

_You're only human, Carraway,_ he mused dazedly, the heat feeling almost pleasant as it closed in on him. _Perhaps you thought you weren't, but you are, painfully so._

How stupid.

He could smell his flesh sizzling, could register the faintest detection of pain crawling up his legs. So this was it. With his last bit of strength, he turned his head, forcing, prying his eyes open with immaterial fingers of will to get one last look out the window. Through the tunnel of fire, he saw the white light at the end—or rather, the green light. He smiled. How symbolic.

"_Nick!"_

His vision vignetted.

* * *

When Jay Gatsby awoke, he was met by the sight of his best friend's home on fire.

Panic did not strike him immediately, sleep bogging down his mind. He stared at the display for a few seconds, entranced by the flicker, the dance and sway of the flames, and how pretty the fire looked reflecting off the bay with the moon and the green light. He awoke a bit more, rubbing his crusty eyes, and then the panic gripped him. His best friend's home was burning.

_Am I dreaming?_ he wondered absently, throwing off his sheets. As he swung his legs over the side of the bed, he peered closer out the window, eyes squinting before he started back. Nick's house was on fire and he wasn't dreaming; he _wasn't dreaming_.

Immediately he was winding around the spiral staircase at a sprint, not even bothering to grab his robe for modesty. Why should he care about such a thing at a time like this? The door burst open and he dashed across the dewy grass barefoot to the inferno. Others were standing around it in mixed stages of awe and horror, and for a moment, Gatsby was one of them, freezing up at the sight. He thought it a terrible thing for this to happen, and worried about where Nick would live, or if he could recover whatever were lost—and there would be a lot lost, judging by the intensity of the fire and the black smoke bellowing out of it—

Wait.

He looked around the party watching, face slowly paling. "Where's—where's Nick?"

No one answered.

"Where is he!" he yelled, catching their attention. "Where is Nick Carraway?"

"Who...?" one man asked.

"Nick! The owner of the house!"

Horror quickly spread across the group. "We didn't," an older woman stammered, clutching her night robe, "We didn't see anyone come out. We assumed—"

_Oh, God._

Despite the protests of those around him, Gatsby braced himself and smashed through the door with his shoulder, wincing as he burst in. Fortunately, the integrity of the frame had been weakened by the flames and he had made it inside relatively easy. Immediately, he drew his collar over his mouth and held it there, bending low to avoid the sting of the smoke. With crouched knees, he inched along the wooden floor, mindful of falling planks of wood and bursts of flames.

His worry was growing; already he had checked the kitchen and living room and had seen no sign of his friend. Perhaps he had made it out and Gatsby should leave, save himself—no. He had to sweep the entire house; he couldn't live with himself if he knew he could have saved his friend had he only made it to just one more room.

But the heat was intense, the smoke, thick and choking, and Gatsby was running out of time. The house seemed to tremble as it ate itself from the inside out, and he knew it wouldn't hold for long. He came to the final room, which he determined to be the master bedroom through the haze. Bracing again, he burst through, the door snapping off its hinges and slamming against the floor.

And there he saw him, his friend unmoving on the floor.

"_Nick!_"

He rushed to his side, giving him a brief check-over before hefting him into his arms: covered in burns and soot, but still breathing, though just barely. He needed medical attention immediately. Securing Nick tight in his arms, he dashed out the empty door frame and through the living room, cursing as burning wood crashed and blocked his path. His teeth grit in frustration. The smoke was hazing his options. They needed to get out.

"Hold on, old sport," he murmured, and, holding him close, Gatsby leaped over the flames, landing in a rolling tackle on the ground. His back hit the counter and the wind left him. His clothes were singed. But there was no time for this; they had to go. With the door frame in sight, he ran through, running, running until he was past the crowd and a good thirty feet from the smouldering wreck Nick had once called home.

Gatsby set Nick down gently on the grass, breathing hard. The crowd had now gathered around them, and he glared over his shoulder. "Call," he coughed, "Call an ambulance! Next door, at my mansion, tell one of my servants to call one!"

No one moved.

"_Call a damn ambulance!_" he snarled. A few jumped and ran off to do so and Gatsby sighed, turning his attention back to his friend. That's when he noticed something that made his blood freeze:

Nick wasn't breathing.

He pressed his lips to Nick's without hesitation, plugging his nose as he desperately tried to breathe for him. This was how people did it, right? Breathe, then compress? He wasn't sure. He was stressed and hurt and having a bit of difficulty himself breathing, and now he had to breathe for his friend because clearly no one else knew how because they were all just _standing_ there, frozen in awe and horror, as if this dying man was just another flaming building to gawk at—

"Breathe, Nick!" he nearly screamed, pressing hard with both hands against his chest, compressing over and over and over before dipping back down to force oxygen into his lungs. Tears stung his eyes, but not from the smoke anymore. He couldn't lose him; he refused! He compressed, he breathed, he compressed, he breathed, again and again, all the while praying at two in the morning in front of a burning house with his dying friend in his hands.

Hours seemed to pass—and then Nick gasped, body arching.

He coughed harshly, body shaking with the force of it, and breathed fast and deep. Gatsby slumped with relief, sighing out. Closing his eyes, he rubbed the bridge of his nose, forcing himself not to bawl in relief. Nick was alive. He had saved him.

Everything would be okay now.

Sirens wailed minutes later as red and blue lights flashed into view. The next few moments were a series of chattering paramedics and oxygen masks and firemen, who had evidently also been called, but to little use; the house was beyond saving and all they could do was extinguish the flames to contain the damage. The black wreckage smouldered in the summer breeze.

Gatsby stood shakily, pressing his hands to his knees to leverage himself up. He watched attentively as Nick was lifted onto a stretcher and placed into the back of the ambulance, medics securing an oxygen mask around his face and an IV cord in the crook of his elbow. He looked so frail; Gatsby couldn't leave him like this.

"Excuse me, sir," he said, grabbing a medic's arm. "Might I accompany him to the hospital? I'm his close friend."

The medic glanced him over before slowly nodding. "That shouldn't be a..." He peered at him. "Are you all right, sir? You're swaying."

Was he? Odd. He felt fine. In fact, he felt strangely... fuzzy? Pleasantly dazed? The world suddenly slipped from under his feet and the last thing he knew was the yelling of paramedics and the smell of smoke under his clothes.


	2. Chapter 2

Yooo, I am so sorry for the delay! I just wasn't feeling the story, and I'm still getting back into the groove of it, hence why this one is so short. Please review!

* * *

The thrumming of his heart was the first thing he was aware of, beating steadily against the apparent weight on his chest—yet when he opened his eyes, there was only a white room, bed, and the smell of disinfectant.

A hospital.

What on Earth was he doing in such a place? As far as he could tell, he was in good health; in fact, he made sure of it. It would be undignified for a man of his stature to let his body fall to waste, for his stomach to bulge like his gold-stuffed pockets. And such a lack of dignity and appearance could never make his beloved truly _his_.

Perhaps something related to stress, then. He was, after all, a very busy man in a very tight-lipped business. Had the stress of late nights, skipped meals, and police raids finally caught up with him, exacerbated by nightly parties at his manor? Or maybe he had been shot, another concept not foreign to his field of trade.

But wouldn't he remember that? So, then what? The last thing he recalled was—

Gatsby sat up sharply with a gasp before stars burst in his vision and he was dragged back down to the pillow. A nurse swam into view and gently touched his forearm. "Mr. Gatsby, sir, please don't try to move. You've inhaled a bit of smoke and need to rest. How do you feel?"

"I'm fine," he dismissed, struggling to sit up again. "Forgive my manners, miss, but I must see my friend. Is he here?"

The nurse pushed him back down as gently as she could. "I'm sorry, Mr. Gatsby, but I'm afraid you can't be up and moving quite yet."

His brow curved inward in slight distress. "But my friend—"

"I presume you mean Mr. Carraway."

"How did you know? Is he all right?"

"I was on shift when you two arrived in the ER." She smiled soothingly, drifting her fingers over a cord; Gatsby realized it was an IV, ending in his elbow. "Mr. Carraway was immediately transported to the intensive care unit. Unfortunately, as that sector is not under my jurisdiction, I do not have the specific details of his condition, but I do know he is currently stable and resting."

Gatsby relaxed in relief. _That's something, at least._ "Am I able to visit him now?"

She shook her head. "Again, I'm sorry, but not just yet. We need to keep an eye on you for an hour more before you can get up and move. I imagine Mr. Carraway is also not ready to receive visitors right now."

His brow furrowed, apprehensive, but the nurse spoke again before he could. "I'm sorry, but that's really all I know. I can get you someone who does, however, but your evaluation comes first."

Accustomed to being extraordinarily even-tempered, he was shocked to feel a strong rush of irritation well up in his chest. His health hardly mattered in this situation. Save some dizziness and a heaviness in his chest, he felt perfectly fine. Nick was the one in the IC unit, not him. But the firm look in the nurse's eye told him he wasn't going anywhere soon and he sighed softly, resigning himself to her words. Besides, if, as she had said, Nick couldn't see people yet, then his objections were moot regardless.

"I understand," he said with a nod, tucking his disappointment under his tone.

"Thank you. Now, how are you really feeling?" Her hand fell away from the IV.

"Slightly dizzy, and my chest feels a bit heavy, but otherwise fine."

The nurse nodded. "That's normal. You did inhale quite a bit of smoke. We're giving you some fluids to prevent dehydration and to assure proper blood perfusion. A blood sample has revealed little damage to your airway and bronchi. Granted, we would still like to keep you under watch, as the effects of smoke inhalation can take hours to become apparent. You've also have some mild first-degree burns on your shoulders and back."

He blinked in surprise, looking over at his shoulders. Gripping his left lightly, he felt a dense material underneath: gauze. It was strange how he only noticed the pain when she had pointed it out, too focused on Nick's condition to consider his own.

"If you would like, I can administer some medicine to ease the pain," the nurse spoke up, seeing his wince.

He shook his head. He understood the dizzying effects of such medicine and wanted to keep a clear head in the situation. "No, thank you. I am managing just fine."

She smiled softly. "I'm glad to hear. However, although these burns are relatively superficial, we are still concerned about infection. If the pain becomes much worse, it could be a sign of infection, and must be treated immediately. Please call if this is the case."

She plucked a clipboard from a nearby desk and scribbled something on it before turning her attention back to him. "But you seem to be making good recovery, Mr. Gatsby. Should nothing come up, you'll be free to go home today."

Despite her optimistic tone, Jay knew he wouldn't be going home today; not without seeing him first.


End file.
